Fearless
by HappyLittlePychopath
Summary: There are only so many moments you have in life to truly follow your heart with reckless abandon, but are you brave enough? To find love, to find belonging, you have to be fearless.


Blonde curls frame ice blue eyes, bouncing in time with the base of the music. It's beat pulsing through her body as she jumps, turns, leaps across the floor. Music was the only thing that could speak to her, never judgmental or condescending, never mad when she didn't return to it over the weekend. It was just there, existing, as she did. The beat sped up, the base pounding faster and faster as her turns quicken to lightening speed, before it all stops. The only noise in the room is her panting, and the pulsing of her heart. Her eyes shut as she counts it's beats.

"Fuck Helga, you keep dancing like that your going to put the rest of us out of business." Thaddeus laughs as she turns to glare at him.

Sweat drips down her like water from a shower, her blonde curls now mated to her forehead. She's panting, her body pushed to the limits. She looks him in the eyes, holding his gaze for five solid seconds before the edges of her eyes crinkle into a smile. Beginning as a tiny twinge of amusement grows into a full tooth smile before he can utter another word. This moment, and the thousands of others like it, were his favorites. They were the moments she looked the most beautiful. Not that she was ever not beautiful, but when her walls came down and she just smiled, god she was breath taking.

"You're an ass, thad." She wags her tongue at him, wiping the sweat running into her eyes as she crosses the studio to her water bottle. She would allow for two minutes of his distraction before running the number again. Her show was only two weeks away and she was only able to schedule 5 hours a day in the studio. Thad, of course knew this, but constantly inserted himself into her studio time distracting her. That was the con of working along side of one of your best friends. The perk?

"The turns would be faster if you kept your core tighter during them, like this." Thad began spinning, a controlled wild, not unlike a top. He glided across the floor, twenty-seven perfect turns executed before a controlled stop. They were two of the top dancers in the Hillwood Dance Company, one of the quickest growing companies in the nation. They both auditioned for professional pieces, headlining shows when they could. It wasn't nearly as glamorous as they had hoped when they auditioned at eighteen but after five years in the business they expected nothing but blood, sweat, and tears.

"If I keep my core any tighter my belly buttons going to be on my back," she shakes her head, placing her water down and striding to the corner of the room, mentally prepping to try his critique.

"Quit whining and give it a try!" Thad laughs, a hit of wild shining through as she preps to turn, kicking her body off, core tight, across the floor. God damn it, even though he wasn't attracted to women he couldn't deny how flawless she was. Her hair was golden, in the right light it shimmered like the sun on the ocean, currently strands whipped around her face slipping out of the half-assed top knot she tied before she stared dancing. Her skin was flawless from the sheer amount of water she drank and the strict diet she followed. Her body was muscular yet thin, the product of dancing nonstop for years. She carried herself with poise and control. She was the epitome of control, except in rare moments when she tossed her head back laughing and let her belly ache with joy.

He drops his bags at the entrance of his childhood home, its worn walls confronting him with years of memories. He opens the door and places his bags just inside, adjusting the strap of his camera that hangs permanently from his neck. His hand slides up the wood of the door frame, resting at a comfortable height above his head as he surveys the hall ahead of him. Faded blue wallpaper hangs from the walls, peeling in some places, an old and damaged front door console held a corded phone from his child hood and a tiffany lamp. The wooden floor was in desperate need of refinishing, a runner with bald spots covering the worst of it. He surveys his bags, his grandfathers old red leather suitcases held everything he held dear. He steps back outside, bounding down crumbling steps, before cementing his feet at the bottom of the stoop and turning his camera on the entrance way. He holds the camera to his eye as he lines up the shot. The stoop leading the viewers eye from the side walk to the door, the green door contrasting with the red suitcases and blue halls. This was his calling in life, finding the beauty in the mundane, capturing a moment in eternity. He allows the click of the camera to lead him down memory lane as his finger adjust aperture and focus automatically.

He began photography in high school, a class added to his Freshman year course load to round out social sciences like sociology, anthropology, and psychology. He was smart, able to take near college level courses at 14 years old, determination forcing him to study endlessly while his friends were off enjoying fleeting youth. His parents had that influence over him, they had devoted their lives to helping those who were unable to help themselves and he was on the same path, racing to the life he so desperately wanted.

"Mr. Shortman, these assignments can't be rushed, the perfect shot is a feeling not a formula." Mr. Kraft shook his head as he patted Arnold shoulder. It was his fifth class, he should be starting to edit a photo for his assignment and instead he is flipping through failures, forty five failures to be exact. The assignment was simple enough, take a photo of something that gave him joy. He took pictures of his parents, his friends, the normal things that make a person happy. "You're missing the point of the assignment. What brings you joy? I don't want to see a picture you could have ripped off a Walmart advertisement, I want to see you. Take photos tonight, we'll try again tomorrow."

He ran his hands through his hair, frustration building. How could he ace classes that required so much thinking about others and be struggling at something focusing on himself? He rests his head in his hands, allowing the chatter of his classmates to drone on like white noise. If he was quite honest, has he ever known himself? He wracks his brain for selfish moments, guilty pleasures, moments of indulgence and comes up blank. As far back as he could remember he spent his life serving others, helping them to grow and succeed. The shrill noise of the bell drags him back to reality, he quickly jams his belongings into a backpack and places his camera around his neck. Another aspect of the class that was quickly beginning to grind his gears, his camera was to be on him at all times in case "a flash of inspiration" as Mr. Kraft put it, were to strike.

He collapses into his room that evening, the entire day gone by and not a single photo to show for it. Well, not a single photo worth looking at, something noncommercial. He tried taking photos of his friends again, this time having them pose as if they weren't posing, a feat too difficult for 14 year old boys. He tried pictures of his parents and grandparents, hell even the boarders, but it all still felt forced. Although Kraft was crazy, Arnold was beginning to feel the truth to his statements, looking at these photos stirs nothing in him. He slides his body down the doorframe, settling down against it. His rooms would make a great background, it would be perfect for some artsy blog. The walls, a deep navy, contrasted with wrinkled wood floor in an warm orangey tone. His desk sat in one corner of the room, next to his grandfather's record player. Across the room was his bed, his mattresses sunken into a raised platform alcove surrounded by bookshelves. Books from all genres filled the shelves, grouped by genre and organized by color. His ceiling was the pièce de résistance, glass provided his only cover from the elements, meaning his entire life was spent with his head in the stars and at this moment the room was filled with warm golden light, the fading rays of the sun after a long day. It felt warm, comfortable, in a way that nothing else could. He dragged himself off the floor, pulling his body from the comfortable spot against his door frame to the edge of his bed. His fingers reached for the camera shakily as he crawls closer to the books surrounding his bed. The spines of most were inlaid with gold flowing script that was dancing in the fleeting light. His fingers played with the settings as he raised the view finder to his eye, lining up the shot to encompass nothing but the expanse of books surrounding him. As he clicked the shutter closed he felt a weight lift off his shoulders. Maybe the things that make him happy creatively weren't the people he spent the majority of time trying to understand.

He pulls the camera away from his eye, pulling his mind away from memory lane with it. Without looking at his shots he turns off the camera and walks back up the stairs, grabbing his bags and shutting the door behind him.


End file.
